You're a poet and you don't even know it!
by PrometheaMagna
Summary: Crowley never really knew Shakespeare. Let's say that he knew Shakespeare as far as a celebrity goes, but he only ever knew about his celebrity status when, years after his death, people were still talking about him. He still never understood why he was such a big deal. So now, it is up to Aziraphael and a recently rebound copy of Shakespeare's sonnets to teach him why.


**You're a poet and you don't even know it!**

Crowley never really knew Shakespeare. Let's say that he knew Shakespeare as far as a celebrity goes, but he only ever knew about his celebrity status when, years after his death, people were still talking about him. He still never understood why he was such a big deal. Hamlet had been a success, no doubt of that, but Crowley kept giving Aziraphael the credit for that—although maybe the fact that so many people still remembered and talked about it even after centuries of his demise should have made him reconsider his stance. In Crowley's opinion, Shakespeare's plays could only go one way or another: either they were funny, or they were gloomy; and Hamlet was in the second one, so he clearly didn't get the fuss. He personally preferred his funny ones (He would never tell Aziraphael, but Crowley admired that, in his funny ones, Shakespeare was a master in twisting things and setting them straight by the end. More often than not, with a big wedding). And Crowley had to admit that he knew Shakespeare made plays because he had attended some of them. However, it came as a surprise when Aziraphael told him that, not only was Shakespeare an amazing play-writer, but he was also a very accomplished poet.

"I don't get all the fuss with poets," Crowley said, "They're all weirdos."

"Oh! I wouldn't say that. I think poets have the marvellous ability to write down the different aspects of what they consider that makes them human in a pretty unique manner."

"Yeah, no. They're odd fellows" Crowley said, downplaying Aziraphael's words "Besides, where did you get that idea, angel? It's so cheeky…"

"Oh, don't tell me you do not recognize it, my dear boy! You were so close to them, remember?" Crowley looked genuinely confused, so Aziraphael stood up from where he was sitting and, glass of wine in hand, strolled down to one of the bookshelves at the rear end of his little quarter. He came back and handed Crowley a book with the name _P. B. Shelly_ beautifully engraved in golden letters on it. Oh, he remembered them bloody well, now! "Don't tell me you never knew they were poets!"

"Yeah, whatever, my point still stands, angel. Poets are odd fellows. If _they_ weren't, they wouldn't have hung around with me that much." Crowley retorted, putting the book in the little table, and recovering his grip on his glass, "The man even had a castle, for Go—Sa—Someone's sake!"

"Well, that being the case or not, my point, as you say, still stands: Shakespeare was a marvellous author and he is still recognized after all these years because of how he depicted in his numerous plays and poems the various facets of what being human is… he even got close to portray the very thread that connected God's creatures to one another." Said Aziraphael, looking cherishingly at his hands, with the slightest of blushes on his cheeks.

"Whatever" said Crowley, looking at the bottom of his now empty cup. He really didn't have time for Aziraphael's nonsense about one of his friends. He was always too nice about all of them and part of Crowley wondered if Aziraphael talked that way about him with other people. _Of course not. You're a demon, he is an angel. Why would he paint you in a good light? _Crowley growled while filling up his glass again. He really could not take that while he was drunk.

* * *

A few years later, on the anniversary of A. Z. Fell Co. Bookshop's opening day, Crowley was driving though London, looking for the best of the best. Wine, cheese, some bread, Aziraphael had something for French-styled lunches lately. He was leaving the liquor store when he spotted a little bookshop, similar to that of the angel. He thought that it would be a good idea to gift him with a book that he didn't had, but after a while he realized he knew near to nothing about the books that the angel did or did not have. He had been collecting them (if what Aziraphael did could still be considered collecting, and not hoarding) ever since the Arabs started making the book binding a novelty, so you could put your money on him having a larger number of books than any of those bookshops had.

He was ready to leave the shop when in the front bookshelf he saw a shiny book mould that caught his eye. He gravitated towards the little piece and took it in his hands softly (Crowley always took fair, golden pieces with soft hands. He always felt they would break if he pressed harder). It had a white dustcover with a golden edge on the pages. There was no title, nor name in the cover, so he understood it was an old book that had, by the quality of the cover, been rebound not long ago (Even if he didn't know which books the angel had, he knew a thing or two about books because Aziraphael had taken a binding course some years ago, and he had blabbed about it for about a week. It wasn't that it bothered Crowley, quite the contrary, in fact, but alas! He could never keep his head straight for too long when he was with the angel, so that was all he had learned). He opened the book in the first page, and the name glared at him. He frowned in contempt, knowing bloody well who had written what he was now holding.

He couldn't really be **that** great. Surely Aziraphael was exaggerating, as he always did with his dearest acquaintances. Just out of spite, Crowley took the book with him. He was sure Shakespeare had been just as bleak as any other bloke the English literary tradition had had as a poet (he was sure that, if either the Shellys or Byron had been still alive, they would have slapped him for that. They were great at parties, and oh boy did the parties got heated up frequently. It had been in one of those parties that Crowley had spilled the beans about Hastur's looks to a very high Mary Shelly. That image had haunted her for the rest of the night and now Crowley knew that she had made a name for herself from a very similar looking creature—or at least as similar as Mary's opiated brain had gathered—and that that had put him in Hastur's bad books. But from Crowley's point of view all those things only reinforced the point he had made about poets. Besides, he was sure they would have, in the end, agreed with him. At least in the "Poets are weirdos" part. Or wasn't their generation that of the "wandering owtlaws?"). And now he was going to prove it to Aziraphael. Then he would stop talking all lovey-dovey about the man and…

Crowley just barely managed to make the Bentley stop at the sight of the red light. People jumped out of his way, fearing he might run over them, and he would have gladly done so, but he had a date with the angel and Aziraphael wouldn't forgive him if he arrived with the Bentley clearly miracled up. Wait… a date? Crowley's heart pounded against his chest, and he let his head fall against the back of the seat. He really shouldn't drive like that. He could ki—er, inconveniently discorporate himself. He saw the little book to his side for a moment before deciding to take it. He wondered if he should just open it wherever, or if he should begin it in order.

You see, it wasn't that Crowley didn't like to read. It was that he didn't read. Reading was something typically associated with good: it gives you information, information gives you power, and power could be put to good use. Of course, the use of power could be evil, but it wasn't inherently connected to the action of reading, so reading itself could not be considered as something bad. Following that logic, a demon should not read: Hell had no books, only records, while Heaven had both records and books, because even in the best place, there ought to be at least a little evil. But—and that was Crowley's mind getting creative—if one started a book in disorder, not following a pattern, and didn't even bother to finish the book, information couldn't really be gathered, so it resulted in no power, leading to no use of that power. So: not good. Not evil either, but he could live with that. Crowley opened the book in a little text titled Sonnet 75. _Heh. Not much of a trouble not following a pattern_, Crowley thought, and read the little sonnet.

So are you to my thoughts as food to life,

Or as sweet-seasoned showers are to ground;

And for the peace of you I hold such strife

As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found.

Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon

Doubting the flinching age will steal his treasure,

Now counting best to be with you alone,

Then bettered that the world may see my pleasure,

Sometime all full with feasting on your sight,

And by and by clean starved for a look,

Possessing or pursuing no delight

Save what is had, or must from you be took.

Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day,

Or gluttoning on all, or all way.

A horn behind him took Crowley out of his thought, who threw the book to the codriver seat and continued his fast driving towards Soho with a hot, tingling sensation on his face. That bastard. That bloody dolt had written a sonnet about a pining couple, and Crowley could put his money on who Shakespeare was referring to. If he had been angry about how Aziraphael talked about the ninny, he was mayorly pissed now. Shakespeare had to thank whomever he wanted that he was already dead.

* * *

"I still don't get your disgust for Shakespeare's poetry, dear boy." Said Aziraphael holding dearly the white book Crowley had given him. He had just found out Aziraphael had had to sell his copy of Shakespeare's sonnets to a "very insistent young gentleman who kept saying that, if he didn't write the outline for his dissertation about Shakespeare by tomorrow, he would be in serious trouble". The angel was a jealous guardian of each book he had, but Crowley knew he was bound to help people in need, and that man really seemed to be someone who was in need. And, of course, Crowley had been waiting too many years to get rid of the book himself, so it suited him just right.

"He is just as bleak as any other bloke the English literary tradition has had as a poet." Crowley said, putting into words his thought of that awful day some years ago.

"Is that alliteration what I hear in you sentence, my boy? You see? You are a poet, and you didn't even know it!"

"It's not alliteration, angel, it's fact." grumbled Crowley, trying to stay composed, while he approached his glass to his lips. "You never told me you two were so close." Mumbled Crowley, partly annoyed with himself, partly annoyed with the dead poet.

"Oh, yes! He was a delightful man, and we had our fair share of things in common. He used to visit quite often so we could chat."

"Yeah, no shit! It made sense he had a crush on you." There was a long silence and Crowley turned to see Aziraphael, who was looking utterly confused at him. "You know," said Crowley carefully, "Sonnet 75?"

Crowley was expecting for Aziraphael to blush, confess something, apologize, even a cathedra on how one could not really say Shakespeare's poems were referencing a real person. The last thing that he was expecting was for the angel to burst out laughing. His laugh, Crowley thought, sounded more amused than anything, but there was a tinge of something underlying and he couldn't pinpoint what it was.

"Oh, my dear boy! Where on earth did you get that ridiculous idea?"

"Well, it's about a pinning couple, is it not? Two men, if I recall correctly. I know you liked him." Said Crowley, trying and failing to conceal his hassle.

"Crowley. We were just friends. Poor William was pinning over a young fellow at that time, and he came to me fairly frequently to talk it out. The most reasonable explanation for that poem is that the pinning couple he is talking about in the sonnet is them both. Although, to be fair with his writing, I wouldn't equate the poetic voice to Shakespeare's own voice…"

Aziraphael went on to talk about some literary theory thingy, but Crowley had stopped listening. So that was that on Aziraphael and Shakespeare's relation. They were just friends who talked about their lives. Friends like Crowley and Aziraphael were. He swung his glass to his lips, and swallowed his wine in one big gulp, trying to push down his embarrassment along with the wine.

"Good eye, nonetheless, my dear" said Aziraphael warmly.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Poets are still weirdos."

And that was that for that conversation. They moved on to talk about how things were on the library, and Crowley went on a rant about how his plants had been trying to go out the window a couple of times that week. And through all, Aziraphael had in the back of his mind a little voice telling him he would some day tell Crowley the truth about that sonnet. Because, yes, the poet had written slightly based on his love for that young man he met around that time, but Crowley's interpretation of the poem being influenced by him wasn't all that wrong either.

You see, when Shakespeare went to Aziraphael to tell him about the young man, they had started talking about different people, or at least what seemed to be different people by both parties, but were different people for Shakespeare, and one single person for Aziraphael. They were both drunk, and even if sober Aziraphael didn't know what his feelings in that moment were, drunk Aziraphael knew slightly better. Aziraphael had said many things that night that embarrassed him, but one of them actually made the cut to Shakespeare's final version of the sonnet.

"_It is just that I don't understand it, Fell. Why do I feel this necessity for his company? This craving, this—?"_

"_Gluttony?"_

"_Yes!"_

"_Oh William. He shalt always be who thou will always crave, but whom thou cannot have. His mere sight and company must suffice to satisfy that craving. Thus one doth pine and surfeit day by day, or gluttoning on all, or all way."_

* * *

**A.N.: Hi! I know I have been gone for way too long, and honestly I will be gone for a long time after this again. Whit all my personal projects, the things I must do at the University, and many other things, I will not be able to write much of anything else.**

**Anyway, I guess this is the first fanfic of mine I have ever written and published in English, so I'm sure there are a lot of typos over here. If you see one, don't be shy and let me know, please. It would help me improve on my writing skills in english.**

**So I think I must clear up a couple of things. I tried to emulate the way the novel is written, so the things that I wrote between parentheses are meant to be at the bottom of the page. I clearly can't do that here, so I will just leave them as they are. Also, I tried to make both Azira and Crowley a mixed version of their characters in the novel and the series, so there may be some things that may not check out if you are only familiar with one of them. Please, check out both, they are amazing!**

**I was inspired to create this fanfic by this scene in the series when Crowley recites a verse from **_Anthony and Cleopatra_** in Episode 3. I really like to think that, by that time, Aziraphael liked to spend more and more time with Crowley because of how he felt, and I thought that, since Shakespeare has his fair share of poems from a man to a man, it would be the perfect excuse to talk about how in that moment Aziraphael was pinning over Crowley, just as Crowley pines over Azira. Also, I liked the idea of Shakespeare and Azira being freinds, and that sparked into my mind that, "hey, bet Crowley was, like, super best pals with the Shellys and Byron." I really think they would have been up his alley. **

**Also, this was my way to make a jab to poets, because I really have a trauma with poetry since the first semester in the career.**

**But, anyway, that would be all from my part. I hope you liked this story and, who knows? Maybe I'll write something more... eventually.**

**P.S. Sorry for the last part. I wanted to write it in Renaissance english, but that thing is W E I R D.**


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